


Crumble

by foolsonparade



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, Fear of Change, M/M, boys crying, fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolsonparade/pseuds/foolsonparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Over near the end of the bed, Miles’ stuff is stacked. Two boxes, four suitcases, a few clothing bags, and some hastily-unpacked piles of clothing; all standing witness to the latest step they’ve taken in their relationship. Miles moved in today. Alex should be thrilled."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumble

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Never happened (as far as I know). I don't own Miles or Alex; I just occasionally borrow them for my twisted enjoyment.  
> The idea for this came to me in the dead of night (as ideas often do) and I just threw it together yesterday, so I apologize if it's a bit slapdash. I really wanted to post something else before the end-of-school-year craziness starts (I'm taking the SATs on Saturday. Wish me luck!) and so I'm a bit overeager in posting this. Hopefully I won't regret that later!  
> Enjoy! <3 xx

Miles’ complexion is naturally fair, and in the low light of early, early morning, it looks soft and milky; a gentle ivory, with pale blue light skipping across and swathing his cheeks with a somber glow.

His eyelids flutter, dark lashes a blur of contrast and movement in the monotonous night, and Alex focuses his attention on Miles’ left hand which rests on his waist to anchor him to the present. He elects to ignore the burning in his eyes like small needles coaxing tears to his waterline, but it doesn’t work. No matter where he aims his attention, it always manages to hitch a ride back to his troubling thoughts and the knot they’ve tied in his stomach. He’s helpless.

Over near the end of the bed, Miles’ stuff is stacked. Two boxes, four suitcases, a few clothing bags, and some hastily-unpacked piles of clothing; all standing witness to the latest step they’ve taken in their relationship. Miles moved in today. Alex should be thrilled.

Thrill. Is that what he feels?

The stubborn rolling of his stomach reminds him of the nerves that greet you on the first incline of a large rollercoaster. Those are called thrill rides, aren’t they? Maybe this is what it is to be thrilled. But if that’s the case, why does he feel like crying?

Happy crying, maybe?

No, that doesn’t seem right. But this is what he wants, he’s sure of that. He shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t feel sad, scared, _guilty_ when he’s just gotten what he’s always wanted: a soulmate, a companion. He and Miles are in love, so they moved in together. Miles got out of his lease and transported his stuff to Alex’s— _their_ —home. Miles cooked dinner, and Alex ate very little. They unpacked some clothes, set up Miles’ television (far superior to Alex’s), opened all the drawers to Miles’ new dresser, and then got tired and called it a night. This is what Alex wanted—still does want. So why are there acid tears eating through his retinas?

The room is brighter than it usually is because the blinds are gone. Miles, ever the fashionable one, brought with him curtains, thin and wine red. They were supposed to hang them, but it didn’t seem important—at least not immediately so.

Soft, yellow light from the streetlamps burns near one corner of the view out the window, but the glow of the night is predominantly the pale moonlight illuminating Miles’ hair in silver ribbons. On his side, back to the window, Miles is near entirely silhouette. His features are partially alight, cheekbone jutting out, shadows obscuring the side of his face lowered toward the pillow, and he looks angelic.

What would he say if he woke up right now to see Alex watching him with tear-glazed eyes?

Alex lets his eyelids slip over his burning orbs, a curtain between reality and his swirling thoughts, and imagines Miles’ hand is really moving up over his ribcage, across his chest, his neck, and then up to caress his cheek with one gentle thumb. He pretends that the hand resting on his cheekbone isn’t his own.

_“What’s wrong, baby?”_

The sound is so lifelike that Alex is startled, eyelids retreating so he can wildly scan the room for evidence he’s not going mad. He finds none.

Beside him, Miles stirs, and Alex would laugh if only he didn’t fear waking his sleeping boyfriend. Somehow he’s living out his fantasy of true love, and yet he’s still lonely enough to conjure company from his imagination. It’s almost heartbreaking.

But he’s not lonely. Not properly.

Miles’ hand is warm; it oozes life and humanity. The hole in Alex’s heart has nothing to do with lack of satisfactory companionship. He loves Miles. No one has ever made him feel so at home in a room that’s treated him far more cruelly than it’s doing tonight. So what does that make this feeling? If not thrill, if not loneliness, what is this pain?

Recovered from his shock, Alex’s eyes slip closed again and that ghostly rendition of Miles’ sweet timbre hums in the smothering silence again: _“Tell me what’s botherin’ you, love.”_

Throat working to swallow down abundant emotion, Alex tries not to gag on a sob too sudden to stifle entirely.

His front teeth go out to greet his trembling lip, worrying the skin while he tweaks and edits his silent reply. A few tears break away from the cluster flooding his clamped eyelids and Alex is struck by an image of the salty liquid burning tracks down his cheeks, skin scorched and blistering. Nausea tightens its grip on his stomach.

 _“Aren’t you happy?”_ asks Imaginary Miles, voice coaxing his eyelids open like a hand tugging open blinds. The effect is a marriage of that sad and spectral voice and the divine sight of Miles sleeping soundly with his lips upturned at the edges, and Alex’s heart is inundated with love.

The answer to the question, then, is, _“Yes.”_ But there’s no way it could be so simple.

_“Then why are you crying?”_

Alex goes to tell Ghost Miles that he was just about to ask himself the same question, but it occurs to him that he _did_ ask himself. There’s only one Miles Kane and he’s deeply asleep, body rising and falling with every peaceful breath, shoulder cutting through the light bleeding through the window. Alex is, for all intents and purposes, alone.

The rope binding his lungs tightens and the lump in his throat swells, limits his ability to breathe. He sucks in air, chest objecting, and blows it out like cigarette smoke. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat. It’s a simple enough task, but with every repetition the burden grows heavier and eventually he’s nigh hyperventilating.

He reaches out, intent on feeling Miles beneath his fingers, but the light from that damned window backlights his hand and he sees the tremors rippling through his silhouetted digits. He retreats, pulls his hand to his chest. On his waist, Miles’ own hand is heavy and reassuring, but somehow the presence only inspires more tears to gnaw at his lower lids.

A moment later, he can’t ignore them any longer and he’s seized by a series of harsh sobs. The tears are released, running free down his face, and they pool between his cheek and ear, wet and uncomfortable.

His knees move up to meet his chest and they brush Miles’ thigh on the way up. He stirs, hums, and Alex is no longer alone.

“Oh, fuck,” Miles says, voice real and solid in tone. “What’s wrong, love?”

Alex can’t answer, his ability to speak lost to the sobs and hiccups devouring the night without a hint of remorse.

Miles shifts closer, mattress dipping and bouncing in time with his movement, and Alex is enveloped in a compassionate embrace, Miles’ spindly fingers massaging the notches of his spine, his hair brushing Alex’s cheek and absorbing the tears. Soft lips caress the tip of his nose, and Miles’ forehead presses against his, flattening the unstyled hair. A kiss on the cheek, the eyelid, the jaw. Finally, stillness and silence split only by Alex’s sounds of distress.

Miles says, “Do you want to talk about it?” and Alex shakes his head no. “Okay,” says Miles, and Alex looks up to see empathy visible without the aid of better lighting. Through the tears, he manages to let go of a relieved laugh.

“I love you,” he says hoarsely, swallowing down a mouthful of conflicted emotions. “And I’m happy to have you here.”

He’s sure he looks a sight and he very likely sounds like a lunatic professing his love in the middle of a hollow night, tears cascading down pale, moon-soaked cheeks, but he doesn’t mind. Miles nods, pressing a kiss to Alex’s forehead, and Alex knows he doesn’t mind either.

They’re in this for the long haul. They can talk about it tomorrow.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you've got a moment, leave me a comment or shoot me a message at most-indignant.tumblr.com! <3 xx


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